


Mating Games-Main Challenges

by vicious_seagull



Series: Mating Games [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Crossdressing, F/M, M/M, Past Abuse, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicious_seagull/pseuds/vicious_seagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My entries for the main challenges for the Mating Games Pornathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge 1: First Time/Last Time

When she was little, Erica would wake up aching and cold on the crinkly paper-covered cot in the nurse’s office. Sometimes she was wearing somebody else’s pants, her underwear still warm and wet.

Her mother would come and collect her, wrapping her up in soft arms, whispering oh my sweet, oh my baby girl into her hair.

The walk to the car was always the worst. Erica tried to hide in her mother’s legs, but there was no escape.

Muddy-fingered and wide-eyed they’d push their faces up against the fence at the edge of the playground to stare. Somebody always giggled and then they were all laughing.

She never let herself cry until she was alone in her room with the covers pulled high up over her head, warm and dark and safe.

\--

She got worse. They had to put her on meds, now, hoping that maybe that would help. They didn’t work.

They turned her body against her in new ways. She’d never thought about her skin before. Now it erupted and turned shiny red overnight. She gained weight all over her body, soft and smothering.

She looked in the mirror and saw a blank, round face, lonely and hopeless as the moon and she hated it. She wanted to claw her way out of the horrible, useless body she was caged in.

The laughter never faded. The evil echo of it mocked her in the hallway, followed her home, haunted her dreams.

She would wake up in the hospital, not remembering but knowing they all watched the ambulance take her away.

\--

Trying to climb the wall again had been idiotic. She knew that. She knew her mother didn’t understand why she did it, didn’t understand that she couldn’t stand all the anger and misery trapped inside her. The wall was just there, a huge metaphor for her failure. She’d make it this time or die trying.

Waking up had been another sour disappointment in a life full of bitterness.

But this time Derek was there. Eyes flashing, literally flashing, and one hand outstretched, reaching for Erica.

\--

And it was worth it, to wake up on strange sheets and not immediately be ashamed, not be scared. Trade one kind of freak for another.

She wiggles backwards, slipping easily into the warm pocket defined by his body.

“Mmmm.” The buzz against the back of her neck skips like static down her spine.

“Morning, lover.” He smiles against her skin and presses a hot kiss there.

“Morning, lovely,” he says and slips an arm around to her to pull her close. His fingers slide down and find her clit.

He’s hard against her back, the head drags against her skin when he shifts, not impatient, just warm and wanting. It’s suddenly not enough. She pushes back against him, makes him laugh.

He braces one wide hand across her ribcage, pulling her leg up with his other hand. His hips shift, dragging his dick across her, teasing, and he slips in on one long slide.

Light spills across the tangled sheets, prelude to another beautiful day, and Boyd kisses sweet and gentle across her shoulder. The sudden joy comes from nowhere and fills her skin until she can’t breathe.

“Erica?” He pulls back and she can’t stand it. She twists around and kisses him.

“I love you. God, I love you.” His face relaxes and he rubs their cheeks together.

“I love you too.” They breathe for a moment until Boyd hitches forward, just a little, pressing down with his fingers.

Their rhythm builds, slow and easy. Boyd keeps her tight against his chest, pushing in with long, sweet rolls of his hips.

She traces her fingers over the base of his dick, where he’s moving in her, stretching her wide. He groans and his hips snap forward, greedy.She stretches her legs wider, lets him hold the weight of her lifted leg. The stretch of it, the wantonness, is too much. Her fingers work frantically, matching Boyd, the way he pushes into her.

She slips over the edge without meaning to, gasping into the pillow and tightening deliciously around Boyd still inside her. He bites down hard on her neck and flexes against her once more before relaxing with a sigh.

The sunlight is warm where it falls across her shoulder and Boyd is still tracing his fingers along the thin skin of her belly, chasing out the little aftershocks that tingle through her.

\--

It was worth it.


	2. Challenge 2: Texts from Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because nothing screams stable like yelling at a guy in a bar because last time you hooked up he stole your underwear.
> 
> http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-49003.html

“Yeah because nothing screams stable like,” Stiles said, gasping the words out as Derek fucked into him, “yelling at a guy in bar because last time—oh god do that again.” He breathed in shakily. “Because last time you hooked up he stole your underwear.”

Derek made a noise that could have been a laugh but also could have been a growl or just heavy breathing. 

“That only proves that you’re an idiot,” Derek said, punctuating it with a flex of his hips that made Stiles’s spine arch up off the bed. 

“I want you to be our emissary. The pack trusts you.” Derek slid out almost all the way out and made him wait, like a big fucking tease. Stiles opened his mouth to complain and Derek slammed back in, knocking Stiles’s teeth together.

Stiles reached up to hold on to the headboard to get enough leverage to push down into Derek’s thrusts. 

Derek pushed in as far as he could, hips working tiny circles against Stiles’s ass. The stretch was perfect, raw and overwhelming. Derek’s lips pressed sloppily against his ear, wet and hot, and his breath was like a brand on his neck.

“I trust you.” It was the angle, definitely not the sudden attack of feelings that made Stiles jerk helplessly against Derek’s hands on his hips.

“Derek, I need to, I’m so close.”

“Do it. Come on, Stiles, touch yourself.” Stiles hand detached itself from the headboard and floated down to grab his dick. He only managed maybe three strokes before he came all over Derek’s abs. Stiles flopped back and watched Derek thrust in until he groaned and collapsed on top of Stiles.

Stiles was still catching his breath when Derek pulled out and rolled off the bed to get rid of the condom and grab some tissues. Derek wiped half-heartedly at the mess on Stiles’s stomach before dropping the dirty tissues off the side of the bed and face-planting in the mattress.

Stiles dozed for a while until Derek’s fidgeting woke up him up.

“Are you really mad about the underwear?” Derek’s voice was muffled because his face was shoved into the pillow but Stiles could see the tips of his ears where they were flushed pink.

“You mean, am I mad at you for jerking it to a face-full of my dirty boxers?” Stiles tried to keep a straight face. “Or for being a dirty pervert who gets hard just from smelling-” Derek rolled over suddenly, like the freaky ninja-werewolf he was, caging Stiles in and burying his face in Stiles’s neck. 

“Shut up,” Derek told Stiles’s collarbone.

“What? Are you embarrassed that the smell of my day-old come makes your dick drip all over the place?” 

“Is this your idea of talking dirty, because it could use some work.” 

“Don’t even front, I know that’s not a banana in your pocket, dude. Mostly because you aren’t wearing pants and thus don’t have any pockets. My dirty talk is totally doing it for you.” Stiles did a victorious little wiggle.

“I’m serious, shut up.” Derek pulled back to glare at him. Stiles quirked an eyebrow.

“Make me.”

Derek did.


	3. Challenge 3: Kink Grab Bag

He does it because she tells him to. 

And because the look in her eyes when she pulled the underwear out of her drawer and handed it to him made him feel like he was burning up from the inside. It was the same scrap of lace she was wearing the first time they fucked, unbearably sexy as she wiggled out of her office clothes, dark green and rich against her skin. 

It doesn’t really smell like her, just her perfume and detergent. But the lace scratches over his skin like manicured fingernails and he’s half-hard as he tucks his dick in. Once he puts his jeans on it’s impossible to tell he’s not wearing his usual boxer-briefs. But Jackson knows and the thought makes him shiver.

He can’t stop thinking about it. The whole day at school, in class, at lunch, the pull of the lace against his skin is so distracting he barely manages to glare at Stiles when the idiot drops his entire lunch tray on Jackson’s shoes.

For the first time in his life he’s grateful that lacrosse season is over because it means that the second the last bell rings, he’s all but running to her house. He’s kind of sweaty when he gets there but not embarrassed enough to care. 

She’s wearing some kind of see-through negligee when she opens the door, hip cocked and smirking.

“Hello Jackson, do come in.” She leans back, but still somehow brushes against him as he steps forward.

“Hi Lydia.” It’s still weird to call her Lydia, sometimes in his head he still thinks of her as Michael’s mom, even though Michael was an asshole and lives with his dad now anyway.

She raises an eyebrow like she knows what he’s thinking.

“Are you thirsty? Do you want a snack?” He knows she’s making fun of him but she says it like it’s something dirty and it’s a second before he can find his voice.

“No.” He doesn’t know how to make this go the way he wants, doesn’t know how to say that he did what she asked, that he’s been wearing her underwear all day and he’s so hard it hurts.

But it’s Lydia, so of course she knows.

She pulls him upstairs to her room and says strip and his hands are shaking as he pulls off his shirt. He hesitates for a moment on the button of his jeans but she’s waiting so he pushes them off and steps out. His dick is dripping and almost purple where it strains against the lace.

“You’ve been so good for me Jackson.” Lydia steps forward, pressing her body against his. “You did just what I asked, didn’t you? Even though it was hard. Even though you wanted to touch yourself all day.” Her fingers are teasing him through the lace and he can’t help it. He cries out like it hurts and she kisses him, hushes him.

“It’s okay, Jackson. I’ll take care of you.” She pushes him backwards onto the bed and crawls on top of him. Her mouth is on him before he even has time to take a breath and any air left in his lungs disappears. She’s wet and tight and so hot. He can hear himself whining pathetically but can’t make himself stop. 

Whenever he imagines her blowing him he always forgets how good it is, how she pins him down and owns him. 

She looks up at him once, red lips stretching wetly around his dick, and he comes helplessly, like she can just pull his orgasm out of him with a look. She licks him until the aftershocks stop and it starts to hurt. 

She carefully pulls the ruined underwear back up over his dick.

“So good for me. So pretty.” She crawls forwards to whisper in his ear until he gets hard again, until she can tease him and use him and break him all over again.

Because nobody touches him like Lydia does. Nobody else owns him.


	4. Challenge 4: The Ties that Bind

After years of doing this it’s still strange to be out here, naked, in the woods. There’s paint cooling on his skin. It’s still wet so he moves carefully so as not to smudge it, trying not to step on anything sharp. Limping would definitely put a dent in the proceedings. Derek’s ahead of him, stomping cheerfully through the underbrush, somehow comfortable in his skin now that that’s all he’s wearing.

There’s a place up ahead where this works. It’s just a small clearing but it has the right trees, rowan, oak, hazel, and pine. 

Derek walks through the gap in the bushes that they’ve worn down over the years. He circles around the clearing, like a dog getting comfortable before going to sleep. 

The paint on Derek’s skin is black. It swirls out from his tattoo, down to the backs of his knees and around to cover his chest. He looks like a warrior, so fierce and proud and happy to be here with Stiles. 

Stiles steps forward to put both hands on Derek’s chest. There’s a pulse of magic and Stiles can feel his heartbeat adjusting to Derek’s. The forest is quiet around them, or maybe Stiles just isn’t listening anymore. He doesn’t have to; he can feel it, awareness stretching out like roots in all directions.

He leans up and kisses Derek softly. It’s not necessary, for this to work, but it’s nice anyway. Derek’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. Stiles doesn’t know if he feels the magic in the same way, but he obviously feels something. He can never really explain it afterwards.

Derek is already hard when Stiles reaches down. It’s nice, in a way, to just make Derek get off, without worrying about himself. He rarely gets to just watch Derek fall apart, quick and messy. Derek grabs his arms and curls into Stiles when he comes. Stiles keeps his hand cupped close and catches it all.

Derek straightens up, trembling a little, and steps back. The rest of it is up to Stiles. 

He walks up to the oak.

“Hi again. You’re looking great, nice family of squirrels living upstairs, I see.” Derek snorts behind him but Derek isn’t in charge here. “Just wanted to say, thanks for a great year, hope yours wasn’t too bad. Here’s my offering.” 

He dips two fingers in the sticky puddle on his hand and drags them in a line down the tree bark. One upright line, for strength, fertility. 

The pine is next, then the hazel and the rowan. 

Derek never likes the next part but there’s nothing they can about it. Derek carefully drags one claw across the center of Stiles’s palm, opening a little seam of blood. The blood gets painted on the trees as well, forming a cross. A horizontal line, for stability and sacrifice. 

He makes one more circle of the clearing, picking a small twig from each tree. An offering in return for his own.

It looks a little silly, in the end, the two of them naked in the forest, covering the trees with come and blood. But it works. It works because he says it works, because he can feel the rightness of it coming together. 

There aren’t so many strange things in the woods these days. The brokenness, the foulness that still lingers from the Hale fire is slowly healing. When the shape-shifters came through town last spring they didn’t stay, the land didn’t welcome them.

He holds the twigs in one hand and reaches out for Derek’s hand with the other. When they get home he’ll tie the twigs together and hang the bundle over the front door.

It might be silly, but it works.


	5. Challenge 5: The Picture Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this: http://i.imgur.com/WYPkxW8.jpg

Stiles love Scott. He really does. Brothers for life. But living with Scott is a different story.

He could live with the messy bathroom and the dishes in the sink and the possibly sentient dust bunnies growing under their couch. He could even deal with the claw marks on his Xbox controllers, and Scott had better be getting him new ones for Christmas.

The sex, though, is too much. Every weekend night, and an alarming number of school nights, Stiles has to clap on noise-cancelling headphones and turn the volume way up just to block out the sound. And that doesn’t do anything about the thumping.

It’s like he’s trying to fuck his way through all the waifish brunettes in the Bay Area. Which—Stiles feels for him, he really does. When the love of your life leaves you standing alone under the disco ball at your senior prom, well, it’s rough. 

But this really doesn’t count as a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s doing nothing at all for Stiles’s sleep schedule. With all the screaming orgasms and the morning sex, it’s feels like it’s been months since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep. And there’s no talking to Scott about it. He just gets all bashful as the girl tiptoes out the door and turns the puppy eyes on Stiles and even the sleep deprivation can’t overcome Scott’s puppy eyes. 

When Stiles gets home from his orgo lab that night, he’s tired and hungry and the last thing he’s expecting is to see Scott fucking some girl from behind on the landing of their staircase. They don’t notice him come in, don’t even look over when he closes the door and sets his backpack down. 

Stiles is annoyed, pissed actually, but he can’t make himself stop watching. They didn’t even manage to get their clothes off all the way. Her underwear is caught around her knees, all bunched up like somebody just shoved it down, like they couldn’t even wait to take it off. Her shirt is rucked up under her breasts so all Stiles can actually see is her belly and the side of her thigh where Scott’s gripping her. 

It’s—its’ really fucking hot is what it is.

Scott’s face is buried in her shoulder. His hands look huge against her hips. She’s pushing back into his thrusts with this long, smooth, undulating sort of motion and shouting a little every time he pushes in hard. 

Scott starts to thrust faster and he slides his fingers down to rub against her clit. She bucks into it, gasping and Stiles is definitely hard. He moves, very quietly, into the living room, out of view of the stairs. He’s conflicted for a moment before pulls his dick out. It’s embarrassing how quickly he falls into their rhythm. As her moans get louder his strokes get faster. He feels his orgasm building right as she starts shouting Scott’s name and he manages to finish before it kills his boner. Stiles hears Scott’s distinctive orgasm groan and the thumping stops.

He gives them a few minutes to clear out before going back to the entryway to get his stuff. He’s walking up the stairs, carefully not touching anything, when he hears a long drawn-out moan coming from Scott’s room, definitely female.

Fuck it, he’s sleeping at Isaac’s.


	6. Challenge 6: Hungry Like the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.  
> She whips a pistol from her knickers.  
> She aims it at the creature's head,  
> And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.
> 
> Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf- Roald Dahl

There are some weaknesses that Lydia cannot forgive, in herself or others. She loathes helplessness most of all, the hollowed-out terror of hoping somebody will come for you because you can’t save yourself, the inescapable weight of your own inadequacy. 

Everything about Peter makes her want to rip her skin off until there’s nothing left that he’s touched. The acid burn of his gaze cuts to her bones. The way it lingers over her curves makes her nauseous and sometimes just thinking about it alone in the car brings the memories clawing back up her throat and she has to pull over as she dry heaves.

It’s unacceptable. She is sick of her own fear, of her own paranoia. 

She corners Stiles before lacrosse practice wearing a strategically low-cut shirt. The boy is so distracted by trying not to look that he can’t even come up with a decent denial. She barely has to raise an eyebrow before he’s babbling about werewolves and hunters and the death-defying freak of nature that is Peter. She knows her expression doesn’t change but he slows down a bit after that. There’s a bestiary he keeps mentioning, apparently it’s digital. She’ll have to get a copy of that. When he starts repeating himself she gives him a little smile and a pat on the cheek and sends him off to practice. 

Lydia makes a detour on the way home. The Stilinskis apparently leave their backdoor unlocked. The flash drive is easy to find. The little bag of powder labeled “wolf’s bane” is intriguing so she takes it. She makes a copy of the bestiary and is only home twenty minutes late. 

The bestiary turns out to be less useful than the wolf’s bane. The purple powder is strangely familiar. Maybe it’s the color, a toxic purple, the exact shade of her favorite nail polish. 

\---

Peter finds her again. She knew he would. She had counted on it. The plan is ready. The house is empty and she’s in her bedroom when she turns around to find him perched on her windowsill, leering. He jumps down and slouches across the room toward her. They’re having a conversation but her heart is pounding so loudly that she can’t hear it. 

Peter trails his fingers down her face. She lets him. She doesn’t really remember what Peter did to her before but she’s sure this has happened. He leans forward and they kiss. She needs his clothes to be off but if he suspects anything this is over. She waits. Every touch is like being touched by a corpse.

When they fuck it’s like a penance for her weakness. She’s purging her fear by staring down into its vacant face. She strokes her hands up his arms, carefully frames his jaw, and drags her nails down his throat, all the way to his heart. He groans. She reaches for his back, playing the wanton, scratching blindly. Everywhere she can reach is covered in thin red lines before the wolf’s bane kicks in. He groans again, but this time in pain. The lines are coming in darker, turning black, and dripping a vicious dark stain onto the sheets.

Lydia climbs off him. Peter is arched off the bed, paralyzed, gasping. Lydia finds her purse, pulls out the pistol she borrowed from Allison’s house. Hopefully Allison’s dad won’t notice one missing bullet. The wolf’s bane is entering Peter’s bloodstream. She can see the black streaks under his skin and he’s making weak little noises.

His eyes follow her when she stands over him. She likes the way her finger looks on the trigger, purple nail polish just barely lined in blood. She expected it to be hard to pull the trigger.

It isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tied for second place with blue_fjord's entry. Thanks to everybody who voted!


End file.
